


Just Dessert(s)

by lynndyre



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Loki with a Moustache is named Steve, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Stanford Era, Trickster - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets stuck in an elevator with a weird dude named Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Dessert(s)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngeNoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/gifts).



After a day in town, Dean decided this hunt made no freaking sense. When he decided to check things out, it was because the newspaper report on the death of one Jack Bransten said the guy had died of an animal attack in the middle of suburbia. Talking to the morgue netted the information that the teeth and claw marks were dog shaped, but too large to match any known breed. By the time Dean hit the guy's house, he was expecting a Black Dog, or a canine spirit of some kind.

According to Mrs Bransten, who made great coffee but lousy muffins, her husband hadn't been nervous in any way before his death, hadn't mentioned seeing a dog in the neighborhood, had never gotten the feeling he was being watched. No evidence one way or another. So while Mrs Bransten tidied away all the coffee things, Dean took an opportunity to talk to the daughter.

"It was Clifford." She pointed to the bookshelf when Dean looked blank, then pulled out a wide, colorful children's book and pointed to the cover. "See? Clifford." There was a picture of a big red dog the size of a house playing with some kids.

"This guy. Clifford." Dean pointed. "He's what killed your dad?"

She nodded. "He's a good dog. He protects people."

And then Mrs Bransten was back to walk him to the door, and she and the kid were both wearing long sleeves when it was 80F. Damn it. Dean needed a drink.

He also still needed answers, and none of this was adding up. The victim of a Black Dog might or might not tell friends and family about having seen it before hand, but black dogs were still _black_. And he'd never heard of any supernatural creature that looked like a 'Clifford'.

The smart thing to do would have been to hit the Bransten's office first thing in the morning, talk to the people he'd worked with, but Dean wasn't ready to stop for the night. He could at least check out the guy's desk.

He got into the elevator, hit the button, waited while the guy next to him hit _his_ button, and the elevator started moving. 

And then stopped moving. And Dean's already questionable luck gave out entirely.

Dean pressed every button, then pressed them again, but nothing lit, and nothing moved. He stabbed the 'Door Open' button with his thumb, stabbed it an extra four times for good measure, and finally smacked the panel with an open palm. "Son of a bitch!"

His mood improves exactly nil when the emergency button does jack shit, and the building's not new enough to have an intercom function. Testing this involves a lot more swearing.

"You want some chocolate to go with that whine?" Dean's pretty sure that's supposed to be cheese, he's also pretty sure this guy is asking for a kick in the ass, but when he turns around to tell him so, he's holding out an actual chocolate bar. Missed lunch wins out over telling off. 

In the back of Dean's head there's a Sammy voice telling him he's PMSing too much to be around.

It's pretty good chocolate, too. Not a brand he recognizes, but it's got peanuts and wafers and little puffed rice bits on top of caramel and who knows what else. The guy laughs at him when the candy bar's gone in about three bites, and the sugar apparently makes Dean human enough to apologise and introduce himself like a human being.

The guy snaps his fingers, like he's remembering something. "I saw you before! You were at the Bransten house, right?"

Dean eyes him up and down.

"Nope? Nada? Nothing? It's the uniform, I swear. Nobody sees a face past that thing. I'm Steve. The postman."

And Dean does remember the postman, but he hadn't looked much past the truck. Damn it. Dad would have told him off for that. "That's gotta be one of the most boring jobs ever."

"You'd think that. But not really, it's great for watching people be people. And the stuff people will try to stick in the mail! Whooo--ee! There was a little kid, the other day, wanted to know how much postage it would take to mail a baked potato, because he wanted to make his sick cousin feel better. And Reverend Complete Prude- names shall be changed to protect the not actually innocent- who managed to drop his parcel and spill nudie photos across the floor of the whole post office."

Dean laughs at that one, which is enough encouragement for Steve to tell him about the map-dartboard in the back room of the strangest places they'd seen postcards from, and the medium flat-rate parcel that had yapped when tilted sideways, and turned out to contain a Jack Russel puppy.

"If he'd gone on the truck, he would have died of heat exhaustion. You'd think he'd be happy to get rescued, but nope!" Steve mimed opening a box and then dropping it, hopping around clutching his 'wounded' hand.

Dean sniggered. "Good for him, man. You did turn him upside down and then drop him."

Steve pouted, shrugged, grinned again. "So then I named him Fenrir and he's probably ruining my apartment as we speak."

Dean figures he probably is. Little yappy dogs like ruining shit. But a Jack Russel kinda fits this guy. He should be irritating as hell, but he's easy to talk to in a way Dean hasn't met in a while. Dean's stomach rumbles. "Got anything else in your man-purse?"

"It's a messenger bag, dickface. What am I, a vending machine?" He rummaged through the bag anyway, coming up with three more candy wrappers, a trashy magazine, and a mangled X-Files novel. "Aha!" He waved his findings in front of Dean's nose, a tupperware full of something cakelike. "Now, repeat after me- 'messenger bag.'"

Dean made a swipe for it. "Messenger purse. Gimme."

Steve laughed and yanked it backwards. "Close enough, but I'm sharing, not giving. You're not the only one who missed dinner. And the lovely Hannah in human resources will be forced to fend for herself tonight, without the pleasures of my company or my delicious confectionery." He popped the container open and passed one of the little cakes to Dean, it looked like chocolate rolled in coconut.

"Her loss." Dean bit into it and groaned happily. "Not pie, but that is some awesome cake."

Steve's moustache was collecting tiny flakes of coconut, but he licked them away as soon as they stuck. "Of course it is. I made 'em. Everything I make is awesome."

"You should quit being a postman, dude. Be a baker, or a chef or something."

"For my next career." Steve licked chocolate from the side of his thumb. "Nothing to drink, though, sorry."

"Were you planning to take Hannah out to a nice romantic vending machine?"

"Shut it, kid." 

Dean laughed, and fished the flask out of the inner pocket of his jacket. "Here. It's just water."

Steve took a sip, then a few healthy swallows. " 's good."

Dean relaxed back against the wall of the elevator, let go of tension he hadn't acknowledged til then. He took his own drink of the holy water. It was body temperature, but not too gross, and the wet clean taste of Steve's saliva clung to the lip of the flask. 

The building got quieter around them. 

Steve fell asleep against Dean's shoulder, after prodding it into a semblance of something pillow-like. He wasn't heavy- he almost didn't feel heavy _enough_ , like Dean's shoulders were calibrated for the weight of a Sammy. But he made the elevator less quiet, and he smelled like little cakes and a niceish, if cheap, cologne. After a while he slid forward, and Dean shifted enough to let Steve's head fall in his lap. It let him reach Steve's bag, anyway, and so Dean read about Mulder looking for aliens while Steve muffled moustached snores in the fabric of his jeans.

Dean never does figure out what the Clifford-thing was. The attack on Jack Bransten was the only one in the area, and two days later he got a call from his Dad telling him to be in Minnesota by Saturday afternoon.

As he hit the highway, he wondered if Steve ever managed to get his date with Hannah from HR.


End file.
